


Holmes, Stripped

by littlewonder



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Homophobia, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Very Secret Diary, Victorian, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 01:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11498475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlewonder/pseuds/littlewonder
Summary: In which Holmes and Watson investigate a series of murders, only to be thrown into the killer’s power.





	Holmes, Stripped

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Panic at the Disco](https://archiveofourown.org/works/966080) by [therunawaypen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therunawaypen/pseuds/therunawaypen). 



> There was so much research that went into this! I took over a month to write and edit this, with at least a week’s worth of research on and off throughout. Basically, this fic is like an embodiment of [this Tumblr post](%E2%80%9D). 
> 
> Yeah, so a lot of this was inspired by the canon and looking at a lot of Granada gifs: it’s my favourite Victorian Holmes, and the one version that got it most right. I also love The Abominable Bride from BBC Sherlock, but I don’t really intend it at a TAB AU. It is quite possible you’ll see my influence from BBC Sherlock in this. However, this is very much meant to be ACD Holmes, and I hope I was able to pull this off. In regards to the original stories, I drew particularly The Beryl Coronet, The Man with the Twisted Lip, The Yellow Face, The Solitary Cyclist, and The Six Napoleons.
> 
> Regular readers of BBC Sherlock fanfics should know that ‘John and Sherlock investigate a sex club’ is a fairly prevalent trope. Obviously, the same is not true for ACD Holmes fanfic, since the Victorian era was far more refined. However, that doesn’t mean there can’t be an equivalent, as I hope this fic attests to. Victorian London at the very least had a secret gay underbelly that I wanted to explore. Although no original story had an adventure anything like this, that is because it would’ve scandalised Victorians far more than it would scandalise us today, and neither Arthur Conan Doyle or John Watson would’ve had the freedom to write this for an audience.
> 
> Today, we can. So I am.
> 
> Some Victorian slang used in this fic:
> 
> \- Peelers: police  
> \- Mutton Shunters: also the police  
> \- Dollymops: prostitutes  
> \- Frig: fuck  
> \- “Dock me”: “Fuck me”  
> \- Cockstand: erection  
> \- Tallywag: dick  
> \- Ballocks: balls  
> \- Bawbles: balls (again)  
> \- Molly: prostitute  
> \- Tipping the velvet: fucking a woman
> 
> [My source for Victorian pocket watches](%E2%80%9D), from which I drew the specific description I used in this fic from.
> 
> [A source I used for dirty slang](https://ageofsteam.wordpress.com/2009/06/08/naught-victorian-words/).
> 
> [Consequences for even being accused of gayness](http://thewatsonbeekeepers.tumblr.com/post/145769873849/i-read-somewhere-that-when-the-original-sherlock).

From the Private Diary of Dr John Watson

Always Holmes has caught my imagination; what lies behind that cold logic, that keen mind? Always he’s been obscured from me by that dark fog that surrounds him; never before had I peered behind the veil. I have often inquired after his past. Even on the rare occasion when he has favoured me with an answer, I have been never completely satisfied, for I yearned to know more.

The story I am about to tell is far too sensitive for the public papers, even if I were to consider veiling the truth in it, as I have often done in the past. What both Holmes and I have suffered this past eight-and-forty hours is hardly something that the general public would understand or sympathise with. For years, I have omitted and lied about what, and who, Holmes truly is to me. At the same time, I’ve tried to, without exposing either him or myself, reach him and to express what side to Holmes’s character I was able to.

Yet in this case, it would impossible to my mind to tell it to the public without letting loose some indiscretion that would put Holmes and I in more danger than I can justify doing. I write these little tales in order to process the whole affair and settle my mind on them. This is such as a tale that not to write it would be impossible. But as it yet is not viable for public consumption, I must write this simply for myself. If I don’t tell it in some form, I feel I might go mad. Even if this account must remain locked away in my room for as long we both shall live, I must tell it.

It was a cool, feverish night on the 5th of March 1895, when Holmes and I were sitting in the living room of 221B Baker Street. Holmes lay spread out upon the ground with his papers all around him, searching for anything: a case, a trivial problem, a singularity. Meanwhile I sat in my chair, observing him. I was feeling out of humour that night, craving him -- craving information about him, much the way he craved stimulation of the mind. I longed to ask him about it, and presently, I thought that it might an opportune time to mention it.

“Anything?” I asked.

“Nothing yet,” remarked Holmes.

“Then perhaps I might be able to take your mind from it for a short time,” said I, “and tell me a little story. I long to hear about your history, as you so rarely talk about it. It is almost as though you are ashamed of it, but I should hope you needn’t be so around me. For example, what was your childhood like? What were you like just out of university? Even tell me what you did in the years I thought you dead. Tell me something, Holmes.”

A small smile came to those thin lips. “I observe you are as restless as I am tonight for want of information,” said Holmes. “Though of a different kind than I seek. Surely I can tell you something of my life tonight.” He jumped up quickly to his feet, gathered the papers up into his arms, and dumped them onto some convenient table. Then he bounced down into his seat across from me, eyes bright and wild.

He had barely got out two sentences of his story, however, when we were rudely interrupted by Holmes’s page-boy. “Telegram for you, sir,” he said, rushing up to Holmes.

Holmes quickly snatched up the telegram from the boy’s outstretched hand and scanned it with his eyes. “Ha! Watson, the story will have to wait! We have more pressing matters to attend to tonight, it seems.”

“What is it, Holmes?”

“Lestrade has just telegrammed us,” said Holmes. “We are to meet him in St Bartholomew’s Hospital, poste-haste. We have a murder to solve!”

I leapt up. “Lead the way.”

I followed him out the door, and soon we were rushing to the hospital. In no time at all, we met Lestrade in the hospital’s morgue.

“Tell me what you know of the victim,” said Holmes, already moving forward to examine the body.

“He was found on the Embankment between Blackfriars and Waterloo Bridge,” said Lestrade. “We lifted the body up out of the water, so he’s a bit waterlogged.”

“As I can see, Lestrade.”

“Well... the case was reported two days ago, at about 4 A.M. on the 3d of March. He was discovered by a fisherman, by name Joseph Ainsley, who was preparing his boat for departure when he saw the victim peeping out of the water. The victim’s name is Henry Pender. His mother is Mary Pender, and he has a brother, William Pender. Father is deceased. They all lived together at 47 Upper-Rathbone Place, Marylebone. From what we can tell, it was a lynching, so we followed up with the family to try to figure out what could’ve led to such an end. The man didn’t seem to have much of a history, and there was no evidence against any of his family and friends. The whole thing is inexplicable. The only possible explanation appears to be some hidden foul connections, as the man himself seems to be of clean habits. Our researches place witness testimony in line with the family’s story, and no further evidence has piled up against the family or friends. Whatever the reason for his lynching is thus far hidden from us. I thought perhaps you could offer some insight. What can you read from it, Holmes?”

“This was no lynching, I can tell you that,” said Holmes. “Look at the pattern around his neck. This white line indicates pressure that was placed upon it. In any typical hanging, you would expect the white line to present along the front of the neck here,” he dragged a finger along the front of the neck, where a faint line could be seen, “from where gravity would’ve pulled him down to earth. Yet you see the white line becomes more pronounced at the sides,” he dragged a finger from the front of the neck to under the ear, first on the left side then the right. “This shows that the rope was wrapped around the victim’s neck then pulled tight on either side of him.” He made a motion to demonstrate the principle.

“That is curious,” admitted Lestrade. “I had put it down to mayhap.”

“It is no mayhap,” said Holmes. “You should learn to trust your eyes, Lestrade.”

“Okay, so what else?”

“His hand has stiffened in a curious position,” said Holmes, cupping it and lifting slowly up for the Inspector to examine. “I should dare say he was holding something, and it was important to him.”

“How do you gather that, Holmes?” said I.

“Well, Watson, one would hardly grip something so determinedly while dying unless it was particularly important to him.”

“Yes, well we were able to figure that much out, at least, Holmes,” said Lestrade.

“Were you able to determine what he was holding?” asked Holmes.

“Why, of course not! How could we possibly conclude that?”

“The positioning of his fingers, of course,” said Holmes. “You will notice, Lestrade, that the thumb and pinky fingers, as well as the ring and index fingers, are positioned parallel to each other as though holding onto something small and round. The middle finger is raised slightly higher, so as to account for chain ring, and if you look closely, you will even see the slight indentation of that pressure point.”

“So he was carrying a pocket watch,” said Lestrade.

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “As for other details, the victim was ill-rested, going by his eyes; he was also quite poor, an industrial labourer, yet well-cared going by the state of his clothes. So he has someone in his life who is able to care for him.”

“Perhaps he had a benefactor,” said Lestrade. “It seems to a rising interest among the higher classes to care for the poor these days. We’ll start looking.”

“Wire me if you find something. In the meantime, I want to speak to the family. Then perhaps we can hunt down this fisherman of yours.”

“Alright then, Holmes, I wish you luck.”

Holmes repeated the address to the hansom cab driver and we were spirited away west to Marylebone. We alighted eventually on a cold and lonely street.

We were surrounded on both sides by lines of apartment buildings which drew the dark in around us. I sensed shadows staring at us through the windows as Holmes led the way up to No. 47 and knocked on the door.

An woman with haggard brown hair and a faded blue dress answered the door. 

“Good evening, Mrs. Pender. I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I’m investigating the murder of your son. May I ask you a few questions?”

“I already talked to the Peelers.”

“I know. I’m a specialist hired by the official police. May I come in?”

She looked at Holmes suspiciously. “All right… five minutes. If only you can catch give ‘em what’s coming to ‘em…”

We were led into a small room that did nothing to keep the chill out. A blond young man lingered by the opposite doorway with suspicious eyes. “What are you doing here?” he accused us.

“Detectives with the official police,” said Holmes. “You must be Mr. Pender’s brother, William.”

“That I am,” said he. “And who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” replied Holmes.

“They got a few questions for us,” said the mother.

“Oh?” said the brother. “Have at it, then. What do you want?”

“Mrs Pender, were you aware of anyone whom your son was close to, or whom you spotted in your son’s company?”

“Of course, my son had many friends.”

“Could you please tell me all you could about them?”

Mrs Pender started talking. It was a long list.

Holmes waited for her to finish, then asked, “You told all this information to the official police?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any information you have withheld from them? I am not an official detective, and if there is anything you are hiding for your own protection or benefit, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Well, now that you mention it…” said Mrs. Pender.

“Don’t,” said Pender’s brother.

Holmes turned to him with interest now, walking around the mother and approaching him. William Pender faltered, but stood firm, stretching himself to his full height. 

“You know something,” said Holmes.

“And you have no authority to pull it from me.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Holmes, and pulled from his pocket a green petal, turning around to catch my eyes with a mischievous twinkle. "Do you know what this is Watson?" he asked me.

“Holmes, where on earth --“

“It was tucked inside our victim’s right pocket,” Holmes replied. "Do you recognise it?"

"It appears to be a flower petal," said I.

“Indeed it is," said Holmes, "In fact is the flower petal of the green carnation. I am well-up on codes within the city, and this one is generally a signifier for one invert to another.”

The room grew dense. William Pender was eyeing Holmes malevolently, who now stared with a penetrating gaze. Mrs Pender looked uneasy.

“You have not told this to the official police.”

“No…” sighed Mrs Pender, looking resigned. There was a subdued anger in her eyes as she glared at the flower.

“You wanted to protect your brother, I understand that. Even though it’s too late to save his life, you still feel protective. You want to protect his memory. So do I. But you can do more for him than that, Mr. Pender. You can help bring justice to his killer, if you trust me. I promise you that I want the same thing you want: to right the wrongs done against him as best that I can. What do you know?”

“It was that Southgate fellow!” cried Mr. Pender. “He was the one that done turned him queer, I just know it!”

Holmes paused, watching him for a moment. “Tell me more about this Southgate,” he inquired.

Holmes took statements from both mother and brother. Although Henry Pender’s hot-headed brother was completely fixated on a man named Eric Southgate, whom he had often spotted with Pender’s company when he frequented the docks, Mrs. Pender appeared to be more rational, listing exhaustively the men who she had seen with her son most recently, and was convinced of her son’s purity.

When finally we left the house, Holmes walked with a light step and the ghost of a grin on his face.

“I shouldn’t look so smug if I were you,” I replied. “You’ve got a lot of work ahead.”

“Ah, but it’s work I should do gladly. A neat little problem to put my mind to… Come, we must meet Southgate on the Thames, and let’s see what more data there is to gather.”

As it turned out, Southgate was the very same fisherman who had found Pender’s body. A youthful apprentice with bristly brown beard, his blue eyes were glassy and haunted when we met him.

“Yeah, I’m the one who found him,” the poor man told Holmes, avoiding his eyes. 

“Mr. Southgate, what was your relationship to the deceased man?” asked Holmes, his eyes attentively fixed on the witness.

“He was my best friend, Mr. Holmes. Grew up in the same neighbourhood together, and for him to end up broken in the water like that… Who could’ve done such a thing?”

“What about his brother, Mr. Southgate, what is your relationship with him?”

“Oh, the bugger’s always hated me. Doesn’t like my influence over his brother… Didn’t,” he corrected himself. He drew in a breath as though to speak further, but released it into a sigh.

“He thought you were too close?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, that’s it. That’s it exactly,” said Southgate.

“And you have no idea who could have killed Henry Pender?”

“No sir, I don’t.”

“Mr Pender’s brother believed you to be in a queer relationship, to use his words. He claimed that you were had a romantic or sexual relationship.”

“No, no no, Mr Holmes!” cried Southgate. “I-I’m not a…”

“Be calm, Mr Southgate. I’m not here to accuse you. What you tell me will remain absolutely confidential. I simply need to know the truth. No consequences will be brought against you for revealing your situation to me. I know it can be difficult to know who to trust, but I promise you on my life I will not judge you.”

Southgate looked up at Holmes, and his eyes were like deep wells. “Well, sir,” he said, “it’s true that he thought that. But I swear to you it isn’t true. Pender was my best friend, and I will attest to that. But if he were with any man, it weren’t me.”

“Do you, then, suspect he sought such relationships?”

“Yes, sir, I do. He used to tell me in confidence when he was finding himself out. He swore me to absolute secrecy, and I took it to his grave. But I’ll be damned if I let him just go so easy without finding real justice if you can provide it, Mr Holmes. Don’t let him die in disgrace, please, sir.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr Southgate. One more question: were you aware of Mr Pender carrying around a pocket watch?”

“No, he didn’t, but I believe he nicked one about a week ago. He was bragging to me about it, he nicked it from Captain Jardine, sir. He was furious about it, screamed bloody murder when he discovered it.”

“Could you describe the watch?”

“The captain was very particular about the watch, so it shined like sunlight. It had an intricate pattern engraved on its cover. It showed five finger like feathers spreading out from a diamond-shape, in a pattern you might find on a peacock. It was brilliant gold, and the captain carried it around with him constantly.”

“Thank you, Mr. Southgate, you’ve been most helpful…” said Holmes. “Where might we find Captain Jardine?”

“I can take you to him, sir.”

“Thank you very much,” said Holmes, and allowed the boy to lead us right to his room on the ship and knock on the door.

A man threw open the door, an extraordinary fury in his eyes.

“What is it, Southgate?”

“These men wanted to see you, Captain.”

Here the man turned to me, and I felt myself being scorched by his gaze. “Yes, what is it?” he demanded.

“I hear you have recently lost a dear pocket watch?” said Holmes.

For a moment, the man’s gaze relaxed as he stared at Holmes. “You heard right.”

“Have you reported the loss to the police?” he asked.

“Of course not! I don’t need those Mutton Shunters! I’ll sort this out for myself, thank you very much!”

“How very curious,” said Holmes. “One might think you had something to hide.”

“Now, look here!” said the man. “You barge in here onto my ship, and throw these accusations of me with no proof--“

“I have the proof.”

“What proof?”

“There is a body at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital that bears your mark. We have an eyewitness to the theft, we have motive.”

“You think I would kill for a pocket watch?” snapped Jardine. “You know nothing!”

“Then enlighten me.”

“I will tell you nothing!”

“Then you will accompany me to Scotland Yard.”

“I will do no such thing! You have no authority over me, sir. Who do you think you are, to have the authority to arrest me?”

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective with the police.”

“Well, Sherlock Holmes, what precisely leads you to think I was the killer of whatever body you have down at the morgue?”

Holmes lay the data before him. Jardine rejected him. “You have no proof,” he repeated. “Don’t waste my time.” And he slammed his door.

Holmes turned to me, now. 

“Well, what now, Holmes?”

“We must gather more data, of course, Watson. Come with me, now.”

Holmes led me off the boat and into a hansom. “Where are are going, Holmes?” said I.

“Home. There’s nothing more we can do tonight. However, in the morning, I will have to track the man, learn his habits, see if I can search his ship for evidence…”

“Without his knowledge?”

“If possible, yes. If need be, I hope to employ Mr. Southgate. But it’s impossible tonight.”

And that’s all there was to it; we travelled home in silence back to Baker Street. Deep in his thoughts as he was, he averted his eyes from mine. I watched his contemplation with an aching in my chest, knowing how cut off from me he had to be to do this. So instead I watched him, drinking in every small purse of his lips, every shine of his eyes, every flicker, every hidden revelation.

Holmes abandoned me at the breakfast table the following morning dressed in a fisherman’s disguise, and left me waiting at home in Baker Street, with his regret that I couldn’t join him and the promise that he’d take me along that night. I sighed; I always missed him when he went undercover. This is not something I could ever express even to him.

He returned that evening, his eyes bright with excitement and his disguise already peeled away. “Watson, I have a lead. Come, we must dress.”

I jumped up at his call. “We?” I asked, following him to his bedroom.

There has always been an easy intimacy between us, yet on this occasion I immediately felt something was different as soon as I entered his room. Holmes was already stripping off his costume, going through a chest full of more costumes at the foot of his bed. I watched him start to change into his costume; this was a process I was not usually privy to. I found the sight captivating.

“Well, don’t just stand there, Watson!” Holmes said impatiently, fishing around for a similar costume to fit my ample frame and throwing it to me. “Get dressed.”

Eyeing him for a moment, I followed his instructions. Focused as I was on my task, I missed the sight Holmes until we both were dressed. Holmes was perfectly disguised as a dandy, and I as a labourer. Upon his call, I hurried after him out the door. Soon he hailed a hansom, and we were headed south.

“Since last I saw you, you knew the starting threads of the case. Much has happened since then. You recall that Mrs. Pender named Barnett as one of her son’s friends?”

“I do indeed.”

“It seems Pender was not a lone victim of Jardine’s as I had suspected. Mr Barnett has just this afternoon turned up as Jardine’s second murder victim.”

“My dear Holmes!” I ejaculated.

Holmes had a most serious expression on his face. “Indeed,” he said. “I greatly regret my mistake. And yet, at least some good has come of it.”

“What good could possibly have come from it?” said I.

“When I came upon the body, there was even more to suggest from it than the previous one indicated. It had apparently been in the water for about the same amount of time as the previous one had been, but had been facing in the opposite position when he died, judging from the swelling of blood under the skin, as well as the passing of Rigor Mortis. He had been weighed down with more stones than Pender had been, suggesting perhaps that the killer was more concerned about his discovery. It was soon to be discoverable why: with my magnifying glass, I was able to make one more finding than Scotland Yard or the morticians at St. Bartholomew’s had managed to do. I found a faded stain on the man’s trousers, and was forced to follow a more intimate search in order to discover the source. The man had anal tears consistent with rape.”

“Dear lord!” I cried.

“Lestrade was certain from this amount of evidence that Pender had raped Barnett before the two both suffered a fatal accident. But I knew better. I followed up this analysis with further research, and was able to discover that Barnett had last been seen with Pender on the most infamous street in London.

“Indeed, it appears that a crime of a most intimate nature is afoot in the heart of London,” said Holmes. “You no doubt are familiar with the infamous Holywell Street on the end of the Strand. Hidden away there, Jardine runs a Molly House, and it seems likely that it was there that he attacked both Barnett and Pender.”

The implications were too horrifying to imagine. “What are we to do?”

“We are to catch him on his own grounds,” said Holmes. 

“Are we to act as bait?” I cried.

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Although, I cannot lie to you, Watson. There is a distinct possibility that this could all go awry. If things should go sideways, there’s no one I trust more,” said Holmes. 

But then he leaned back, with a decidedly more relaxed expression. “But that seems unlikely. These costumes are to disguise us as threats to Jardine; there’s no reason he should pick us out as targets unless we are reckless.”

“What is the plan, then?” I asked.

“We are to go in undercover, gather the appropriate data, and arrest the criminals in the place of Scotland Yard. We are not, and this is very important, Watson, but we are not to endanger anyone else in the Molly House who are not involved in this business. When we go inside, we will see many men breaking the law, but it is of the utmost importance not to bring attention to yourself by putting a stop to it. Stealth is going to be the key thing here; this is not a raid. Do you understand, Watson?”

I wanted to protest, for I knew what law Holmes was referring to and I was shocked that Holmes did not stand on the side of the law in this. For a moment, doubt swept over me, and I began to wonder whether Holmes might not have been inside such a place before, whether he might not have broken this law in the past. But his logic was airtight: we were to remain undercover, no matter what kind of gross indecency we might witness. And Holmes had placed his faith in me; I didn’t dare let him down.

“I understand,” I said.

The hansom took us to the end of the Strand, where I paid the driver and Holmes pulled me quickly by the hand first down Holywell Street, then down a labyrinth of paths housing the most disreputable of enterprises. Around me were the leering eyes of dollymops, as well as all manner of deceptively ordinary men and women, yet with eyes quickly averted as we passed. I looked at the back of Holmes’s head as he counted the twists and turns we were taking under his breath. His eyes focused on the task like a bloodhound following a scent as we descended on into the worst of society, it seemed without a care for what we were getting into.

“Ah! This is it, Watson!” cried Holmes, and I crashed into his side as he stopped suddenly, staring up at a Molly House on the left-hand side of the lane. Above the entrance hung a hand-painted sign reading, ‘The Secret Garden’.

Holmes looked briefly looked at me and explained, “This is the place. Now, Watson… we must attempt to blend in.” Here he grabbed hold of my shoulder, leaning his lips towards my ear. “Keep your eyes and ears open, this is where our observation skills must come into play. Now I’m afraid I must ask something of you, Watson… like our unfortunate victims, we must pretend to a couple in order to root out the villians. I would not ask this of you if there was any way around it, but if you are with me… it’s the easiest way.”

I froze on the spot, listening to his words. Pretend to be with Holmes? I pressed together my lips at the prospect, not wanting to give myself away. Yet it’s all I’ve ever wanted. It was my darkest secret, and yet… not like this. Incrementally, I nodded my head. “I am with you, Holmes,” I whispered. No matter the danger, I was with him. I always was.

He took my hand, holding me closer. Together, we entered.

Holmes looked around us with a fierce gaze as we entered the fray, his eyes like a hawk masterfully picking out details.

Holmes didn’t look at me, though, and I found myself growing irritated. “What do you see, Watson?” asked Holmes.

“See?”

“I told you to keep an eye out,” he said impatiently.

“Of course.”

I focused away from Holmes’s face and onto the crowd past his head, as he looked similarly over my shoulder. All around us were men caught in each others’ embrace, so that I found it hard not to notice Holmes’s gentle hand on my neck, his chest pressed into me, his breath hot in the air. I felt on might choke on the heat he exuded. I inhaled. For just a moment, I saw something. A woman -- no, a man dressed up in drag.

“Holmes,” I said. “There’s a man in drag… just -- moving through the crowd.”

“There are many men here of that description. You need to be more specific,” he said, still not looking at me.

“He’s in a pink dress with a white collar, which starts at the neck and extends over the shoulders. He has blond ringlets of middling length, and sharp green eyes. He is just now passing behind a man with a deep brown jacket…”

Holmes shifted his gaze to follow mine. I eyed him as he lit up. “Yes, Watson… an excellent disguise…”

“Do you mean to say that woman is Jardine.”

“I do indeed.”

“What now?”

“Don’t let her from your sight, Watson… where is she looking?”

“She’s talking to a couple off to the right of me,” I said.

“Good, that’s good…” said Holmes. He pulled me away, further into the crowd away from them. Dutifully, I didn’t look away from my target.

We came to a stop once my target was hidden behind the press of bodies. Holmes tapped my shoulder. “Come now, Watson…”

I turned to look at him, and caught his retreating back as he slipped past a private door. I followed him.

We found ourselves alone in a dressing room. I watched as Holmes carefully rifled through the room, keeping my senses alert to any impending danger.

“A-ha…” said Holmes, and pulled out a long length of rope. “This would about do it, wouldn’t it, Watson? Notice the size, the thickness, the pattern… I’m sure this would be an exact match for the pattern on our victim’s neck.”

“Not enough to effect an arrest, surely?” said I. “It may be purely circumstantial. We know not how it got there, we don’t have a motive.”

“Of course you’re right, Watson,” said Holmes. “But it’s a start.”

He began to wrap the rope around his forearms, until he was holding a line of rope between his hands.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Taking precautions,” replied Holmes. “We must be on our guard, Watson. We don’t know when Jardine or his partner might come back.”

“Should I have kept an eye out?”

“No, Watson, it is no good. We must stay together. The cover would break down if we part.”

I straightened into a hard line, and nodded curtly.

Holmes searched the dressing room and then turned to the staircase. Holmes led the way.

We ascended slowly, cautiously. Once we had about mounted the staircase, Holmes put a hand on the doorknob. I peered from behind him as he slowly turned it, and then pushed the door open. He moved forwards, and stared about the room.

He froze, as he stared to the left. He raised his rope, his eyes hard and determined. I paused as he disappeared to the left… I climbed another step.

Suddenly, I saw Holmes fall away to the right, and out of sight.

“Holmes!”

I rushed up to the top of the stairs where I had last seen him, and turned to the left, where his attacker must be -- and felt the rope twist around my neck.

I stared, trapped between breaths, as I stared out at a man with cropped blond hair, dull blue eyes, and hard smooth lines on his face. I could feel my vision unfocus.

“Watson!” cried Holmes behind me.

I did not discover what happened next, however, before my vision went out.

I woke in a daze. The world was narrowed down to the pain in my head and the soft sheets beneath me. I might have been back home at Baker Street, were it not for the memories that slowly seeped into my brain. I tried to move, slowly rousing my body back into life.

“Watson,” hissed Holmes from somewhere, and my eyes finally snapped open, moving my head about in search of him. I lifted myself up onto my knees before I spotted him laying before me, nude.

I startled. “Holmes?”

He was stretched before me on the bed. His nipples stuck out pert and pink upon his breast, and his eyes were dark as they glinted at me. There was something so vulnerable, so pleading in them, and my gaze fixed on them irresistibly.

“Watson,” he sighed.

The moment he spotted me, he closed his eyes slowly, frowning. He was silent for a moment, and I could see him thinking. 

I looked down, and realised with horror that I was similarly stripped. My bare knees against bare sheets, my chest, my… prick.

Raising my eyes from my own body, I found Holmes was similarly at attention. I flushed.

“Ohhh, Watson,” he said, seeing my reaction. “Watson, Watson…”

Holmes lifted his head, breathing deeply. His arms, which were hidden from me behind his back, wiggled back and forth. “My arms are tied up… under the pillow my head is resting on…” His arms were stretched above him, and he know pulled on a few times; each time they bounced back into place. “…tied to the bed head, which consists of a curled metal design. Puncture mark inside my elbow…” His chest bucked, his eyelids strained. “…burning, drugged… more than my usual 7% solution, a reckless amount… raising blood pressure…” Holmes said. His mouth cringed. “Arousal…” he added in despair. “Watson,” he said, and my eyes shot back up from the evidence of his arousal to his eyes, which presently looked up to look at me, pupils blown and question in his eyes. “I’ve been dosed with cocaine, and I… we are caught in the spider’s web. Watson, you are unrestrained.” Then he fell silent, thinking. I watched him, waiting. When he said nothing, I offered a suggestion. “Perhaps I should let you loose?”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” came a voice from somewhere in the room.  
I wrenched my gaze from Holmes to the voice. That hard gaze that now came back to me from my last memory stared at me from out of the shadows.

“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson,” said the man. “Isn’t this cute, you’re all wrapped up in each other’s arms. I became aware of you on my trail. But it seems, in this single matter, I have managed to best you.”

“So it seems,” said Holmes quietly.

“You are at my mercy,” the man continued. “I can do anything I want with you, Mr. Holmes. If you value your own life, you will do exactly what I ask of you.”

“And after you have had your way with me?” asked Holmes.

“Oh, it’s not I who will have my way with you, Mr. Holmes. I like to watch.”

“You will not let me go; you know you can’t afford to. So why should I let you do what you want with me? Once all this is over, you would not give me any more freedom than a harlot from a brothel.”

“Now, I’m a reasonable man, Mr. Holmes. I am perfectly willing to let you go, so long as you follow my instruction. If you don’t wish me to kill you and your… partner, you must allow your partner to frig you. I shall produce witnesses, just so you don’t get any ideas about retaliation. If you ever try to bring me to justice, you will get convicted of gross indecency. If you refuse, you’ll follow your trail right to the bottom of the Thames!”

The thought was too much for me to bear. “Holmes!” I cried, turning to him. I paused; he was still tied to the bed; he could do nothing. But I wasn’t; I could do something. And if our captor had expected me to simply going along with his blackmail scheme, he was sorely mistaken.

I jumped off the bed, modesty forgotten in my haste, and lunged forward with a raised fist. I fell forward as he moved out of my way, and he forced me against the wall, my arm twisted behind my back. He pressed his own arousal into my rear.

“He’s got spirit, your lover,” the man pressed against my exposed body jeered.

"This is what you did to them," said Holmes coldly. "You offered them a choice. And when they refused… you killed them. Worse: you raped and killed Barnett while he sat astride Pender; you made him watch. Then you killed him too. You made it look like they'd killed each other. And now you would do to us."

"Very clever, Mr Holmes. Although decidedly less clever since I already have you at my mercy."

"All this isn't simply because of a watch. This is what you do."

Jardine reached for the pocket watch on his waistcoat. He opened it to show Holmes something inside. "She was my world. I can barely stand this world without her in it. The way she died…"

Holmes looked grave. "She would hardly have wanted this."

"You didn't know her! She would've applauded me for it! And now, Holmes, you will go the same way as she did!"

The man held me now with only one hand, and I broke his grip. I punched him ―

“Watson, don’t,” said Holmes. For a moment, he paused. “We must play along.”

“Would you give up so easily? I know you can’t actually want me to…”

Holmes said nothing. For a moment, I feared I’d insulted him.

“Holmes?”

The man released me with a sneer, pushing me towards the bed. I stumbled, then walked slowly forwards towards Holmes.

“Holmes,” said I, but he silenced me with a look. I shut my eyes. “I… Do you really want this?”

Holmes closes his eyes. “Watson…” said Holmes, his whole expression shut down in bitterness. “Of course not. I just…” But his tone was too soft, too vulnerable. I wondered if there wasn’t more to this than he was willing to admit. Holmes’s eyes snapped open. “I have made a grave error, Watson. Perhaps all this is still salvageable. But for now, we must play along.”

I came forward and sat down beside him, stroking gently down his chest. For a moment, my eyes lingered the lean pale skin, the pink peaks. “Whatever I can do,” said I, “I will do. But I want you to ask me.”

Holmes said nothing.

“Do you trust me?” 

There was no hesitation in his voice. “Yes.” 

“Then trust me now,” said I, “between you and I, no one else here matters. It’s just you and me. Look at me, Holmes, and tell me you don’t want me.”

“I…” There were tears in his eyes now. I could barely endure it, the indecision in his eyes. I had never seen Holmes like this, stripped of that masterly confidence I had always known him to carry. Now I saw there was another Holmes, beneath the veneer of that confidence. One who was insecure and afraid.

I knew what he wanted to say.

I stroked down the middle of this chest again, soothing him. “It’s okay to want me in this moment, Holmes… It’s okay to want each other. It just means that we don’t let them win; we don’t let them get the better of us. We still have power here. We can choose to love one another,” I whispered.

“I want you,” whispered Holmes, barely audible, and a tear shone in his eye. “I want you…”

I threw my weight over him, straddling him at the hips. I leaned down, pressed my chest over his; I stroked one side of his face while I put my lips to his opposite ear. “Ask me,” I whispered.

“I want you to…” Holmes whispered back, “dock me.”

A harsh voice barked over my sweet whispers. “Looks like it’s showtime!”

Holmes’s eyes broke from mine, writhing under me, staring into the sheets. “Holmes, please…” said I, “look at me.”

“I can’t,” said Holmes, and he continued to stare as though in a trance.

“Holmes?”

“I can’t,” he repeated, finally tearing his eyes to look into mine, until gradually, the room was filled with voyeurs.

“The curtains rise…” hissed Holmes.

Jardine soon led in a small crowd, who lined up against the far wall, covered but not hidden by the shadows there. 

I grew conscious of their leering eyes, and forced myself to look away from them. I looked down between mine and Holmes’s bodies again that were exposed to the room. It wasn’t an attractive prospect, what lay ahead of us. But Holmes’s words came back at me from earlier. “There is no one I trust more,” he had said. His body was flushed under mine, his mind erratic and his body distracted. He needed me.

When I drew my eyes back up to Holmes, he was hard at work scanning the crowd, his mind pushed into overdrive and his eyes darted over them. Holmes was fairly more efficient with his eyes than I was, quickly deducing the men that surrounded us. But soon I grew jealous, and touched his cheek. Holmes flinched, then his eyes shot to mine.

I smiled at him, keeping his gaze, unflinching. I wanted him to keep his eyes entirely fixed on mine. I admit to having selfish reasons for staring intently as I did into his eyes, and it is because I wanted him to focus on me, all of me, to have his undivided attention and -- yes -- even his love. 

I wanted his permission too, willfully given, wanted him to want me, with or without the pressure from killers. Yet this, I realised, was my only chance to really know him, to share the most intimate of touches with him, to feel him truly submit himself to me. And oh, how I longed for him! My gaze wavered down for a moment. This was Holmes, stripped, possibly for the one and only time, so far removed from wrapped up man he projected to all the world.

I kissed him. It was tender at first, seeking permission. Holmes sank into it, and I grew more insistent, hungry, possessive. His breath was rapid, his mouth hot, and it was the sweetest of moments. 

For years, I had longed for this. I had never thought this would be mine, that he could ever mine. I pressed my body hard into his, overwhelmed with sensation. Flesh pressed against flesh from lips to legs, and I could feel my body’s rising interest to the proceedings.

My hands trailed all over his body, and he reacted to me wonderfully. Even the lightest of touches could incite a reaction, his body seeming to be hyper-aware of me, and I was careful as I dragged my fingers over his chest, arms, shoulders, nipples, stomach. I was shocked to hear Holmes moaning as he squirmed.

Yet Holmes could do little to give back the touches I was giving him, which I found immensely dissatisfying. But perhaps it could be enough, the way he arched against me. 

I moved my mouth from his gasping lips to his neck, stroking his hands reverently down from his chest, his stomach, until they rested on his cockstand. He thrusted restlessly into my hand.

“Oh, J-John…”

I had never heard Holmes with such an eager, lusty tone to his voice. He sounded so needy, and my body flushed with pleasure.

“Oh!” he cried, as I sucked harder on his neck. “How are you doing that?” His tallywag twitched in my hand.

I grinned, and slipped my other hand first between his legs, feeling his pulse race just on the inside of the top of his thigh, savouring the heat. I teased my fingers along the pulse point, and then raised my hand higher to fondle his ballocks. Slowly, I pulled my right hand along the shaft.

He arched his back as his legs flew open at my touch, and that voice of his started heaving into short breaths, loud to my ears. He arched against me, thrusting with reckless, speedy abandon. I wasn’t sure how much I could take.

Holmes. I almost spoke his name aloud when I remembered we weren’t alone. Yet, I stopped myself right in the nick. And oh, this was dangerous. I knew that I should feel ashamed of this, as a gentleman. Yet I wasn’t; I had always wanted this. Even in the sparest of moments, in the middle of a case, between revelations, I found myself wondering not at the great brain, but the body hidden underneath those clothes. Yet now, all was exposed to me. Looking wantonly up at him, I took a breath in attempts to compose myself; I knew I would never get enough of him.

Always he had been my rock, but now Holmes was coming completely undone in a way I’d never seen him before; yet here he was, thrusting in my hand like some wild animal. This was a Holmes laid bare, as he truly was.

“Come on, give him a good frigging!” called a man from the audience, and Holmes turned his head.

I took his face in my hands again and turned his eyes back on mine. “Hush, love, hush,” I soothed him, stroking his cheek. “Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

Those eyes shone with an intensity that tore me apart and put me back together; they were unflinching, unending; confronting, with every insecurity I had ever been taught, everything in myself I had ever learned to fear; those eyes made me forget everything except for this moment, and I struggled to remember where I was, what I was doing, what I was meant to be doing. I began to wonder if it wasn’t he who had me in his power, so held as I was by that gaze. I blinked, looked away, cleared my throat. I looked back up him again, and I felt this moment could stretch out forever if I let it.

So I dragged my eyes down his chest, sank lower down the bed, down his body, until I was level with his proud member. Everything came into focus then: the dark inside of his thighs; the curve of his bawbles; the red dripping member remained hard and leaking in my hand. With a tight grip, I slowly ran that hand to the tip, and smeared that spend around the head and down.

From this point, I wasn’t entirely certain how to proceed; this was new to both of us. My eyes flicked up to his again, and I could see my confusion reflected in his eyes. But I also saw desire reflected there, and knew what it meant; knew how long I had wanted this, how many times Holmes had proven his strength or his wit to me, every soft smile he had given me, every fireside conversation, and suddenly my body moved of its own volition, bound up with fourteen years’ worth of craving. I moved my face down to engulf his member.

I sucked him with such voracity that it was a wonder there was any room to breathe.

“Ah, ah… W-- John!”

I could tell he too was working hard to keep our names secret. I knew this, and it made my heart ache with the pressure we were being put under. Because I loved him, and I still do; because I didn’t want to be doing this simply because we were being forced to. I just wanted the ability to love him, in private, on our own terms. This act, right now as it was, was still coercive; it wasn’t entirely consensual.

But, by Jove, I was going to savour it anyway.

“John. I’m -- I’m going to…”

I pulled off, looking up at him. It wouldn’t do to let this end too soon. Apart from which, it was far too dirty to let him spend on my tongue. Instead, I inserted three fingers into my mouth, and sucked. I sucked those fingers to the roof of my mouth, laved my tongue all around them, tasted the dirt rising from them onto my tongue. Slowly, I slipped them from my lips. 

I knew his hole would be tight, and I wasn’t entirely certain how to free it up enough so that I might fit inside it… I began with a single finger. 

I reached back. My finger found his puckered hole, and dipped in. He was tight, so tight, and I felt the heat and the tension building inside of me, squeezing around me, filling me up with heat.

I probed the walls inside of him, and they continued to resist me. So I continued to thrust my finger back and forth, and he moaned like any seasoned molly. I circled my finger around him, looking to stretch him out further, only that I wouldn’t have bothered if it weren’t for our position; just seeing Holmes being so affected from so little of me was immensely satisfying. But I knew what was required of me, so I continued to stretch him out.

I was unable to stretch him out to three fingers, but I managed to stretch him out to two. Relenting to the fact that this was the best I would be able to achieve, I lined up my cockstand to his entrance. Slowly, I pushed in, past that tight ring of muscle, to that wet heat that pressed mercilessly into me.

I made a slow progression. Finally, I paused when I was filled to the hilt. I was now positioned directly above Holmes, and now I looked down on him, watching his expressions to discern his level of comfort. At first, his face was closed. But when he looked up at me, his face was flushed, and his eyes wild. “Move,” he said.

So I began to move. It was almost overwhelming; now I could hear moans escape past my own lips. My nerves lit up, my blood pounded, the pressure mounted. Gradually I moved faster and faster.

If I was overwhelmed, then Holmes was utterly lost. He was a red, writhing mess beneath me, and I kept one hand on his pulse point, worried as I was that Holmes would become overstimulated, with the rapid pulse that throbbed in his wrist. I knew he was in my power, and I didn’t want to over-exert him, so I kept a steady pace and watchful eye. If Holmes could be said to be in my care, then it was critical that I not let him down.

It was fortunate, then, that he was already near the peak.

He spent against his own stomach between us, with an exasperated moan. I continued to thrust in and out of him involuntarily, hot and sensitive and tight, my head thrown back in the midst of my pleasure. This was a purely physical moment between us, and it was just as ordinary as if I were tipping the velvet. But this was Holmes, and the moment was all the sweeter for it, clenching me tight as he was, as though he might never let me go.

I filled him with my seed. 

I pulled out. In the aftermath of the deed, Holmes could barely look at me. I clung to him, though, buried my body against his; once rationality returned to me, I felt I might go mad with shame and regret, even while a part of me, which presently I suppressed, had wanted and liked what we had done. But I began to realise now that the act had put both of us in danger, a tantalising piece of blackmail that would follow us our whole lives.

“You’re free to go, Mr Holmes,” said Jardine with a smile on his face. “Welcome to the criminal underclass.”

Oh, how had I allowed it to happen? I resented my selfish desire that had disgraced us both and made us criminals. There could be no coming back from this.

Holmes looked at neither of us as Jardine untied him. In fact, his eyes seemed to be fixed entirely on something else in the background. I tried to follow his gaze, but I could not tell who he was looking at.

As soon as he was free, Holmes leaped up off the bed and raced down the stairs. 

“Holmes!” 

I raced down after him. Holmes was pulling a robe quickly over him to cover his shame. He was calling after someone. “Ayers! Wait!”

He raced from the room. I pulled on a robe and followed him.

Holmes finally caught the man at the entrance, throwing him against the wall and holding him there. I stopped before the pair, watching.

“What a surprise it is to see you here, Ayers,” Holmes told the man, “I have to wonder just why that is. I was following up a case here tonight, and now the whole thing has been torn to shreds. And then I look over and I see you, bearing witness to the whole thing. Will you tell Mycroft of the whole incident, will you tell him how I was violated?”

“Mycroft?” I said.

Holmes looked briefly at me. Then, turning back to his quarry, further enquired, “Did you have a role in my disgrace? Certainly I can think of no other reason why the criminals were so prepared to receive me. Why were you here tonight, Ayers?”

“Your brother has no idea I was here tonight, Mr Holmes,” Ayers said, a wild fear in his eyes. “He didn’t send me.”

“Then perhaps you might enlighten me,” replied Holmes.

“I did nothing to set you up, Mr Holmes.”

“Then why did you try to run away?” asked Holmes. “And if you didn’t, who did? Why did you pay money to see my performance, and when realising it was me, why didn’t you put an end to it? Furthermore, it can surely be no coincidence that a member of the Diogenes Club was there to bare witness to the whole affair.”

“Diogenes!” I cried.

“That’s right, Watson,” said Holmes. His eyes were fixed on Ayers. “Robert Ayers is one of the members of my brother’s aristocratic club for anti-socials. It might also interest you to consider the types of people who might join such an organisation. My brother’s club is filled with members whose motives for such a lifestyle is many-varied. Each and every one has a good reason to be skeptical of our society to the extent of seeking a reprieve from it. In other words, each member is an outsider in one way or another. A man of ordinary society might even call them a threat.”

“It is us who are under threat, Mr Holmes!” cried Ayers, all his fear quickly disintegrating in rage. “Men, like you and me, who love other men! They are the ones who are hunting us down! Is it really a surprise to you that I should want to escape to the sanctuary of the Diogenes Club? Is it a surprise that I should seek the gratification of a Molly House?”

“What is a surprise to me is that you would seek gratification in the violation of men like us, instead of protecting us!” Holmes said.

“I was afraid! Surely you must understand that?”

“I understand none of it! If it had been me in your place, I would have certainly spoken up!”

“And put yourself in danger?”

“It would be worth it.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” said Ayers. “It would be worth none of it. This society of ours is made to turn us against each other. It is built on fear, and hate, and it has given me both of those things in abundance. I could no more save others than choose the manner of my own execution.”

Holmes loosened his hold on Ayers, and squeezed his shoulder. “We aren’t without choice,” said Holmes. “I would still choose to put myself in danger rather than let someone else suffer. That is why I chose my career: to help the victims of this society. But not everyone is like that,” he conceded.

Ayers’s face softened, but there was still rebellion in his eyes. “The devil only knows,” he said.

“I’m going to ask something of you, Ayers,” said Holmes. “It will be completely up to you. But men like us should stick together, and I dearly hope you will agree to stick by me.”

Ayers was wary. “What is it?” he asked.

“Now that the deed is done, I can do nothing through the official channels. However, with your help, I would like to do what I can to seek revenge, as well as ensure the villains will never have the power to do this to anyone else again.”

“What is your plan?”

“Rally the other witnesses,” said Holmes. “Tell them the truth, not only of what happened tonight, but of what Jardine has been doing: killing our own kind. That is the case I came here to solve. Raze the place to the ground if you have to. I want to ruin him.”

“Then what is it you will do?” asked Ayers.

Holmes let go of Ayers now, seeing that he had his attention. For a moment, he turned to me. “We will confront the men about their crimes. I have evidence. If need be, we can tear each other’s worlds apart.” His eyes sought out mine now, seeking my approval. “They haven’t threatened me alone; they have also threatened you, Watson. Therefore, I leave the decision in your hands. Will you join me?”

My higher reasoning was telling me no. And yet, I knew he was right. Even if it ruined me, I would gladly go down at Holmes’s side.

“Yes,” I said. “We had better get dressed first, though.”

“Ah, yes. Well, lead the way, Watson…” said Holmes, and paused. He turned back to Ayers. “Can I rely on you?”

“You could both just be throwing away your lives, on someone who doesn’t even matter…”

“Oh, but it does matter! It is of the utmost importance!” cried Holmes. “You say our kind is being hunted and you’re right. We are being hunted, from both sides it seems. If you don’t think that’s important, and if you’re not willing to do what it is in your power to do, then I’m afraid I truly don’t understand you.”

Something passed over Ayers’s eyes. “Well, better you than me,” said Ayers, with a nonchalance that was at odds with his features. “Can’t promise you I’ll have much influence over them, but I might as well try to help you, at least.”

“Good man!” said Holmes, and he grinned. “Come, Watson,” he said, and he led me back to the room we had recently left.

Our hosts were waiting for us.

“And here I thought you truly were leaving us without putting all your clothes back on,” smirked Jardine. It was then I noticed two piles of neatly folded clothes piled on a table in front of the mirror. “Have you been enjoying the entertainment? I do hope to see you here again.”

“Is that part of our deal?” asked Holmes.

“No,” said Jardine. “But you played so well this time, put on such a good performance… and it would be a shame to lose you. You seem like the kind of man who could use a bit of unwinding. And I’d think you’d enjoy it.”

“I’m not one of you.”

“Oh, just give it a chance. You know you want to.”

“You violated me. Both of us. You put us both in danger.”

“Oh, you surely don’t think it was rape? You were having such fun!”

Here Holmes looked at me, and for a moment his face softened. “No, I don’t think that,” said Holmes, then quickly turned to face the villains. “But it was a violation, and it also doesn’t excuse murder, or exposing intimate acts to a spectacle. A Molly House should be a sanctuary for our kind, not a hunting ground! God knows there’s enough of that out there. I will make sure you harm no more men while I have something to say about it.”

I stared in astonishment at Holmes and the confessions he was allowing to seep from his lips. Had Holmes, before now, attempted to find pleasures of the flesh in another man? The very thought twisted my insides to imagine a young, fresh-faced Holmes elliciting the touch of some fine young man. But yet, if he had ever attempted to find someone of the sort, he hadn’t found it. I recalled with smug clarity how tight he had been; no man who had ever known another man’s touch could be so virginal.

“The thing is, Mr Holmes, it’s only dangerous if we tell,” said Jardine. “And we wouldn’t want to do that to another invert… not unless you force us to.”

“You aren’t the only one with the advantage of me,” said Holmes. “I have proof that you killed Henry Pender and Adam Barnett.”

“You don’t have to do this,” said Jardine. “We don’t have to fight, you and I. We can live in peace from each other.”

“It’s true, we could go to jail for this, we could ruin our reputations. Perhaps my career might even be ruined. But you’re murderers, and I’ll be damned if I let you get away from hunting our own people, not while it’s in my power to stop you.”

“Don’t be stupid, Holmes. You’d throw away both your lives on a few dead men?”

“I’d sacrifice whatever to stop you from harming anyone else.”

“And your partner?”

“He knows what’s at stake. He’s on my side.”

“But surely you wouldn’t want him to suffer.”

“No,” said Holmes. “But I would not tolerate injustice in this world. Tell me, Jardine, if I were to set a raid upon this place, what would the police find, besides the disgrace of the Empire? Would they find you a murderer? Would they even blame me for coming under your power?”

“Do you really want to take that risk?” said Jardine.

“Would you?”

“What would be your price to get you off my tail, hm?”

“I plan to expose you,” said Holmes. “No witness could surely stand by while you are threatening and committing murder under the guise of consensual sex acts? I understand perfectly how vital it can be to find sanctuary in a place like this, with the whole city looking to presecute you for what you are, or what you do. The world is convinced you are evil; I think differently. Even here, it seems, we are being hunted by our own kind.”

Here, he turned to me, and I caught a glimpse of fear in his eyes; looking at me with such vulnerable humanity, it was all I could do not to drag him into the protection of my arms. Instead, I placed a comforting hand on his back, and he was so shocked he jolted upright.

He turned from me, but the hardness was gone, and our enemy could see it too. “You don’t really want to do this, Mr Holmes. Ruin your reputation, your freedom. Tell you what, leave in peace, and we promise to do no more harm to anyone else.”

“I’d need more than that,” said Holmes, “more than your promise. I doubt you would keep your word. And I don’t think it would be wise to let you walk the streets knowing how dangerous you are, how devoid of morals, or even loyalty to your own kind!”

“Perhaps you need collateral, then. The rope you were so interested in… It’s yours, if you want it.”

“I could take it directly to Scotland Yard.”

“But you won’t.”

“Won’t I? What makes you so sure?” said Holmes.

“Because we already have our collateral against you. The sheets you stained. If you like we could both go down to Scotland Yard together and hand in our evidence. But it’d be much simpler to settle this between us.

“Watson,” said Holmes, half-turning to me. “Fetch Ayers, would you? Tell him to organise a raid.”

I could not know what was in Holmes’s mind, but I did as he bid me. As I left, I could just hear Jardine’s mocking tones.

“Do you perhaps think the police with spare you? Their little pet? Even you would stand no chance against the...”

I went to find Ayers. I discovered him surrounded by people. I was hesitant as I relayed Holmes’s message. “Surely he doesn’t think you have the authority?” said I.

“Perhaps he hopes we can clear the building out,” said Ayers. “Protect the patrons, rally us to his side.”

Here, he turned to his audience. “The man whose debauchery you witnessed tonight is the very man to bring to justice the very men I have talked to you about. It is time to take back this Molly House for those of us who come here for sanctuary. We have a right to exist! Now, who’s with me?”

Like a true revolutionary, the crowd rallied around him, drinking in his every word. Ayers promised to meet up with Holmes and I soon, and we parted.

I rejoined Holmes’s side.

Jardine turned snarling to me, while Holmes held him back. In the time I had been gone, I fight had broken out, and Holmes had been prepared, this time. The rope by which Jardine had attempted to kill and restrain both us and his victims had become his leash.

Holmes greeted my entrance with a grin. “You have set a raid about the place?”

“Ayers and his men working this very minute.”

“Excellent. We may yet salvage my error,” said Holmes. “Get dressed, Watson, and we may soon put all of this behind us.”

“But how?”

“Oh, I don’t think it should be too difficult to destroy the evidence against us. And if you tell me Jardine’s witnesses have all turned against Jardine, we have only to find a place for Jardine where he might never darken our doorway again.”

“Perhaps the asylum? He has certainly shown signs of mania up until now.”

“Excellent, Watson. We can certainly prove that with witnesses. Our young Mr. Southgate… And of course, we have enough here to tie him to the two bodies in the morgue. Surely madness would be enough to strike out any claims he could make against us.”

And so it was. When the Molly House was cleared of its patrons, Holmes handed the business over to Ayers to run, and we took our man to Lestrade with the whole of our evidence. Lestrade thanked us, with no clue of our role in the debauchery he praised us of saving the city from, and we left finally for Baker Street.

There was one last question burning up in me. When our hansom set off down the street, I asked Holmes, "There's one last one last thing I long to know about the whole affair, Holmes. What was it the man showed you in his pocket watch?"

Holmes drew a photograph from his pocket, and handed it across to me. It was grotesque: it was of a man wearing a dress.

"That was his love. It was affixed opposite to the clock face inside. I imagine that was what was so precious to him."

"The man was an invert as well? But Holmes, why did you take the photograph? Isn't it evidence?"

"You forget so quickly that we also have a secret to hide. It would not do to give the authorities any small reason to so much as sympathisn with the man. For the time being, we are safe in their confidence, but I will take no chances of that changing.

“It’s strange, Watson. That man Jardine was something I didn’t expect. The world seems a little darker now that I’ve met him, to know that such a villain, as cunning and malicious as he was, may yet live in this vast city. I’ve known my fair share of criminals in my time, but never have I been so tested, not since Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls; never have I been done so thoroughly as I have with that man. I have always known crime seeps through all corners of the earth. Yet still it seems I’ve underestimated just how cruel the world can be. To think that even where men carve out their safe spaces, they should be so thoroughly betrayed by their own kin for the sick pleasure of others. These men, most of them, are not criminals, Watson. Not with all I’ve seen of the world. Bohemians, I often find, are the kinder species, not as inclined to the dark path as most, because they’re already so disadvantaged in the world. They need to stick together to survive…

“One reason why I’ve always found myself drawn to crime is that I’ve seen first-hand what it can do to innocent men and women, and I became determined to put an end to it where I can. I’ve seen the world tear men apart, in both city and country. I know well what can happen. And now I have truly put myself in harm’s way in the pursuit of it.”

“Do you really trust those men to keep our secret?”

“I have a little trust in the solidarity with our kind remaining to me. The fact now remains that there is more danger for us in the world than there was before. There can be no going back.”

Several weeks have passed since that night, and barely a word spoken of the whole affair. There have been moments where I had thought it best to bring it up, but the poor chap looked too beaten down for me to continue to press the subject.

Occasionally at night, I might feel him sidle up to me in my bed. Not doing anything forward, just seeking some small comfort. If ever I would try to turn and face him, he would say, “Shush, now, Watson, go back to sleep,” with a firm hand on my shoulder, and I would do as he bid me, afraid as I was of scaring him off or upsetting him. Then he’d be gone by the morning, and refuse to speak of it again.

Holmes and I followed the news with some interest, the shocking trial of Oscar Wilde. Not just any slummer whose murder we solved just weeks before, but a respectable man like us. If someone like Oscar Wilde could be an invert, then London must surely be rife with the lot, and they needed to be cleansed as soon as possible, so the papers say.

We know that London is growing ever more dangerous now; not just for criminals, but for innocent victims like us. It’s strange to think that the course of justice can go so terribly wrong, yet that’s where we find ourselves.

“It shall be all right,” I told Holmes, hoping for once he might listen. “We can get out of the city for a while, lay low.”

“But for how long?” Holmes said miserably. “Will London ever be safe for our ilk? Must even we have to run and hide from the devils of this world? My dear Watson, I never took myself for any kind of a real man before the intimacy we shared, never a man with desires… And I don’t expect anything, but I do find myself craving you more often lately. And yet, with the whole city against us, it just makes me wonder what kind of justice there is in the world that would condemn us to live in fear for our lives, our livelihoods, even our dignity. I’ve seen men die over this, Watson, good men. There may be no death penalty for the crime of which we are guilty, but that doesn’t mean men survive even the whispers of accusation. Men kill themselves over rumour, and others still grow sick from the treatment they receive in prison. And how are we to survive, Watson, if we are caught? No, we cannot. However much I crave it, I must live as a starved man, always out of reach of that which I crave most.”

I must admit I was astounded by this frank confession as it spilled from Holmes’s lips. I had seen his body stripped bare… now, I saw his heart. 

“My dear fellow…” said I, “of course you are a man. Has it truly escaped your notice? You are even more than a man to me, so how has your own opinion failed to count up to even that level? Holmes, you are… the most extraordinary man I have ever met, and if you can’t see that…”

Holmes looked at me as though cutting through a fog. “My dear Watson, you are too kind for this world.”

“I mean it,” said I.

“I know you do, Watson, and the best answer I can give is… thinking myself as less than a man is all I’ve ever known. Before I knew you, I had always been shunned as someone less than a man. I have once spoken to you of Victor Trevor. He saw something in me few people did, much like you, Watson. Yet you are even more than he was to me, you who are the only man I’ve ever craved and one whom I would gladly share my life with if I could. But it’s true that I’ve held myself back from telling you all, and that is perhaps because I didn’t want you to know my darkest secret, for fear you would turn tail and run.

“Now you know, and I’ve no reason to hold it back now. You are still here, still looking at me with those eyes of admiration, and it’s more than I’ve ever known I could have in my whole life. I suspect it’s more than I ever shall know.”

“I shall always be here, Holmes. As long as you will have me.”

“Then you have your pick, Watson,” said Holmes, brightening up. “Where shall we go to escape from London?”

“Well, there’s no rush, Holmes, they haven’t convicted the man yet. We should keep a close eye on the papers, though, see what comes of it. It will give me time to think on your proposal.”

“Very well, Watson,” said he, and went back to reading the paper. 

“By the way, Holmes, you did not find the experience… objectionable?”

He peered over the paper at me, and I knew that he knew what I meant. “Under better circumstances, it might have been better,” Holmes said. “Perhaps we might try it again. Under more… agreeable circumstances,” Holmes said.

I grinned. “When you like, where you like.”

**Author's Note:**

> I used the non-fiction book, Sherlock Holmes: The Man Who Never Lived and Will Never Die compiled by Alex Werner. That book also led me to some of my research listed below; some other researches are also listed.
> 
> The book I mentioned above had this to say:
> 
> “…the geographical label ‘Bohemia’ has often become tied to specific locations… In the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries ‘Bohemia’ indicated, though imprecisely, particular areas of London.  
> “These radiated out from the Strand -- to the south, down to the Embankment; to the north, up through Covent Garden to Soho; to the east, down to the lower reaches of Fleet Street; to the west, gaining considerably in social status, to the Haymarket, St James, Piccadilly and ‘Clubland’.”
> 
> Clubland, as it turned out from a quick Google search, extends from Piccadilly Circus just north of Green Park, till about Coventry Street, as well as extending down Regent Street, back west through Pall Mall and back up through St. James’s Street.
> 
> The book continued to only brief mention in the book of Holywell Street I found, so I went searching. [This link](https://publicdomainreview.org/2016/06/29/the-secret-history-of-holywell-street-home-to-victorian-londons-dirty-book-trade) not only talks about the street, it also provides lists examples of smutty books sold there and insight into Victorian views on sexuality. Beware, smutty pictures ahead.
> 
> And [here’s](https://vulpeslibris.wordpress.com/2016/05/20/where-was-wych-street-a-vulpes-libris-random/) a map to show you where it was, as well as to learn a bit about the neighbouring Wych Street.
> 
> From the same book, I also extended my learning about where the different classes lived in London throughout the time period through [ Maps Descriptive of London Poverty by Charles Booth](https://booth.lse.ac.uk/learn-more/what-were-the-poverty-maps).
> 
> Due to the circumstances of the sex scene, I also looked up [cocaine overdose.](http://www.projectknow.com/research/cocaine-overdose/)
> 
> I read[this source](http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/pdf/10.1080/09612029300200016) only in as far as I discovered [this rape case](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashford_v_Thornton#Death_of_Mary_Ashford) in order to know how such cases were followed up by police. I also used [this source](http://crimefeed.com/2016/07/terms-every-coroner-should-know/) in order to discover how Holmes might have read the corpse and dated it.
> 
> As our victims were fairly poor, I also looked at [Victorian attitudes towards the poor](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-2157884/What-Victorians-teach-todays-social-workers-helping-Eric-Pickles-problem-families.html).
> 
> [This link](https://www.jstor.org/stable/3828543?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents) won’t be viewable for everyone, so let me just sum up what I took away from it. In the Victorian period, rape was a serious crime but its definition was very strict. “Respectable” suspects often got reduced sentences or acquittals, even despite evidence or eyewitness testimonials presented. According to examples given, such men were “incapable of committing such an offense” and had a “good character” according to statements of people close to the accused. This respectability was only undermined if they served a sentence; however, judges would often try to avoid charging such a sentence to a respectable man. Laws were made vague enough that judges and juries could interpret them based on their own biases.
> 
> [This](https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?title=File:48_and_49_Victoria_Criminal_Law_Amendment_Act_1885.pdf&page=6) was an active law that outlines “gross indecency” as banned. There is one vague clause (number 11) which forbids any kind of “indecent” act between men.


End file.
